Page 6 of When We Were Younger

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I repeat the simple mantra to myself as Kira pulls up to the front of the house and two of my favorite men burst through the front door, two dachshunds and a corgi yipping at their feet.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite daughter," Jay calls outas Kira throws open the door to the SUV and launches herself towards her parents.

"I'm your only daughter, IronDad," she says, jumping into his waiting arms and letting him lift her off her feet and spin her in a warm embrace. Even in his fifties, Jay McKenna has the unmistakable physique of an athlete. His sculpted quads peek out from his black running shorts, and his forearms, half hidden under rolled up hoodie sleeves, flex as he spins his kid around. His husband and Kira's other dad, Keith, takes his turn at a hug with Kira. Keith looks just as young and fit as his counterpart, but he's got more of a slender, yoga bod, not a 'I used to take hits from three-hundred-pound linebackers and probably still could' body like Jay.

Jay unexpectedly sweeps me up next, spinning me around the same as he did with Kira a moment before.

"Dottie Lynn Hart, how the hell are ya?" He asks as we twirl.

"I'm doing good, IronDad, how the hell are you?" I shoot back, calling him by the nickname his kids gave to him. I don't know the whole story, but I think the reason has both to do with his muscles and his obsession with Robert Downey Jr.

Keith hugs me next, rubbing my back in a loving, paternal way that soothes me.

"Hey, Pops," I say as we embrace, and Keith squeezes me a little tighter.

"It's good to have you back, kid," he mutters quietly. So quiet that I almost miss it. I feel a swirl of emotionsbuilding in my chest. Gratitude that these men care about me. Guilt that I haven't been back to see them. Hunger, because I can smell sautéed garlic wafting from the kitchen.

The dads chatter on as they grab our bags and haul them through the mudroom, something about a new paella recipe they recently tried that they're dying to make for us, and the HGTV shows they have saved up on their DVR for afterward. Domestic bliss at its finest.

Jay mentions that Dean will be here soon, too. We all lean around the kitchen island, suitcases discarded in the living room to be dealt with later.

"Perfect, just enough time for a Cosmopolitan and some charcuterie before my dearest older brother shows up and ruins the vibe!" Kira says, motioning towards the untouched board loaded with cheeses and cured meats.

"Uh, I didn't get any vodka," Keith says with a wince. "I thought you'd want a nice Sauvignon Blanc with the paella, sweetie." Kira grabs her chest with a dramatic gasp.

"Pops! What the hell? We don't do homecomings without Cosmos! You're telling me there is no vodka anywhere in this house?" She throws her hands up with indignance as her dads shake their heads.

"What kind of self-respecting, middle-aged gay couple doesn't keep a bottle of Tito's on hand?" she mutters, and I pat her back.

"Give me the keys, Keeks. I'll head to the liquor store and pick up a few bottles."

She digs in her bag for the FOB as Keith tries to take my place and make the trip himself. I brush him off, saying he should be here when his son arrives. It doesn't stop him from slipping some cash for the provisions into my tote bag as I swing it over my shoulder.

Besides volunteering just plain being the polite thing to do, I feel like I should take the opportunity to let all four McKenna's reunite without me intruding on their family time. As welcome as I've always been here, I'm not their child or their sister. I don't really belong here with them, and they deserve at least a moment of pure family time alone.

I drive down McKenna Mountain and in to town with the windows down, enjoying the crisp feeling of the sixty-degree December air whipping through my hair. I parallel park in a spot right in front of Liquor World, searching my purse for quarters to pay the meter before I remember that this is Fox Hole and there are no parking meters to pay here.

Much like the rest of what I've seen so far, Liquor World hasn't changed at all over the years. Mrs. Johnson still stands behind the register, a brown apron tied around her neck and a crossword puzzle book in hand. A bowl of Dum Dums Lollipops sits on the counter, and it reminds me of my mom. One of the few times she'd allow me candy is when we'd make our weekly trip here to pick up a few bottles of gin and Mrs. Johnson would sneak me a sucker while Mom pretended not to notice as she paid.

The whole place still smells slightly like cardboardand tequila, and it's a weird mix of nauseating and comforting. I take a basket and carry it down to the vodka aisle, pulling a few bottles off the shelf before detouring down the wine aisle for a box of white zinfandel.

A box, not because I’m cheap but because I'm practical.

I go to stand, but I feel it before I can move my legs. A proverbial shadow casts itself over me.

Like an icy prickle crawling up my spine, the feeling of being watched creeps through me. My breathing slows. The soft country music playing through the overhead speakers fades to a dull roar that echoes between my ears. My stomach flips, my skin tingles, every nerve in my body fires on all cylinders.

I should have known better. I should have prepared. I should have stayed in LA, or fuck, run away to Timbuktu.

But it's too late. I'm here. I've been spotted, and if the lingering presence behind me in the aisle is any indication, I'm not getting out of this unscathed. That realization is punctuated by a pointed clearing of a throat.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling the heady scent of pine and sage. The scent that imprinted itself on my soul a million little times, that haunted my heart as I watched this small town disappear in my rearview mirror.

After all this time, Stephen Hudson smells exactly the way I remember him.

I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and plaster on my best brave face.

---